


The Suspicious Assassination of JFK

by icantwritegood



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: CIA Ryan, FBI Shane, but it's a blast, harvey lee oswald is up in this too, interviews wrapped up with actual events yknow the suss, jfk makes a v quick cameo, kind of a True Detective layout, mmm maybe, shane and ryan are idiots who can't communicate good, umm did they accidentally cause JFK's assassination??, who's a douche, who's v rule-abiding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:52:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icantwritegood/pseuds/icantwritegood
Summary: JFK is assassinated due to miscommunication between the FBI and the CIA. In particular, miscommunication between FBI intelligence analyst Shane Madej and CIA target analyst Ryan Bergara.The day of the assassination, Shane and Ryan seemingly vanish in unrelated circumstances. Three days later, they turn up in Cuba, hopelessly entangled in each other's lives, and with a strange story to tell. But will it be enough to prove their innocence?





	1. Recording 1

_November 22nd, 1963._

_Shane stood in the doorway to the cafe for a moment. The guy couldn't have been more out-of-place. In his white shirt and black tie, he looked like he'd been dragged straight from Wall Street. He was staring back at Shane from the outside table, face guarded. It was a quiet side street, one of those streets you'd pass by and never even notice. Clever choice._

_"Uh, are you Ryan Bergara?"_

_"As long as you're Shane Madej."_

_"Yeah. That's me." It was weird, seeing the man behind the... the what? The passive-aggressive emails? The snotty 'orders'? "You don't look like I thought you would."_

_"Well you look exactly like I thought you would. Because I looked up your profile." The man gestured at the seat across from him. "We have to talk."_

_"Unfortunately." Shane reluctantly took the offered seat, clearing his throat. "I assume you heard what happened."_

_"Oh, the fact that the president was fucking obliterated this morning? Yeah, I think I heard about it."_

_"Back up with the 'tude, Bergara. I'm not here to start throwing insults around, mainly because I'd smoke your ass."_

_"I can't really take you seriously when you look like that."_

_"Oh, like a white guy on holidays? Because that's what I'm supposed to look like. You couldn't look more glaringly federal if you tried."_

_"A flower shirt? Really? And you can take off the sunglasses. We're in the shade."_

_"It's called a disguise, Bergara."  Shane whipped off the sunglasses, using them to point at the man across from him. "Now relax. I'm here to potentially save my career, not verbally spar with you."_

_"Your career?" Ryan shook his head, a hapless smile on his face. "We're not here to save our careers, Madej. We're here to save our fucking lives."_

* * *

 

The recorder whirred quietly. The air tasted like smoke, and coffee. Lots of coffee. The paper rustled softly as the interviewer distractedly sorted through it, rattling off the time and date of the interview; November 25th, 1963.

“So tell us. From the beginning.”

“Tell you what?”

“How you got here.”

“I drove for a bit. Then I walked. Same as you, presumably.”

“That's not what I meant, smart guy. How did you get into this situation.”

Shane leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath before leisurely letting it out. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“I’m genuinely curious. You have your official ID around your neck, yet you’re sitting here in a Tommy Bahama shirt that’s covered in dried blood, and a pair of sunglasses that are missing one frame. How does a man who looks homeless somehow turn out to be an FBI analyst?”

He shrugged, adjusting the sunglasses on top of his head. “Life is full of twists and turns, y'know.”

“And more importantly, why did you vanish the day JFK was killed?” The interviewer raised a bushy eyebrow at him. "When it was supposed to be you organizing his protection?"

“Ah." Shane rested his elbow on the table, and his head on his hand. "So _that’s_ the story you want to know.”

“Clearly. And don’t try and lie to us, because your friend is in the next room being asked the exact same questions.”

A pause. “My friend?”

“Bergara. Ryan Bergara. The CIA guy.”

“Oh, right. The big-shot CIA man." Shane laughed quietly, like he was being spun a mildly interesting story. "We’re not really _friends_. We had some good times, but- Well, maybe not even good times. But we sure had, uh, we sure had times.”

“Oh, you’ve have some real strange times, haven’t you?”

“I assume you’re referring to me and Ryan’s previous communication history?”

“More like miscommunication history,” said the interviewer dryly, lighting up another cigarette.

“Oh. You’re a comedian. Sorry, I wasn't aware.”

The interview scooched his chair closer to the table, clearing his throat as he opened up the thick file in front of him. “Perhaps we’ll start there. With your first fuck up.”

"The fugitive financiers?" Shane rolled his eyes, holding a hand out for a cigarette. "Listen, I don't usually smoke, but everyone has their limits, right?"

* * *

 

“That wasn’t me. That was him.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was Shane! I had sent him-”

“So you _did_ know each other.”

“No. No, we didn’t know each other." Ryan stayed silent for a moment, pensive, fingers resting over his mouth. "We just had to work together on some stuff.”

“Since when do the CIA and FBI cooperate?" The interviewer stubbed out her cigarette, flipping through the pages on her desk. "On anything?”

“Okay, yeah, you have a point there. We didn’t... work _together_ on stuff. I suppose you could say we worked against each other? It's the nature of our jobs."

"Specify?"

"I'm a target analyst. I have to _predict_  what people of interest will do next. It's all very... theory-based. Shane is, on the other hand, an intelligence analyst. His job is to run around, guns blazing, and just convict people."

"Ah. I see. So what had you two becoming so entangled so quickly?"

Ryan shrugged uncomfortably. "We were forced to communicate due to some… conflict of interests.”

“Which were?”

"The fugitive financier case. Where he royally fucked up.”

“In Columbia?”

“Close. Cuba. Anyway, there’s this guy that was there who had gotten away from us - meaning the CIA - and fled to there.”

“How’d he get away?” she asked curiously.

“As I was _trying_ to say a few minutes ago, Shane did it!" He leaned forwards in all earnest, folding his arms on the table. "I had told him - _advised_ him - not to go in and arrest this guy, this literal fugitive, and to give him a year's surveillance in case we could get more connections off him. Shane did surveillance for a fucking _month_ \- excuse my language - before giving the green light to his guys. And because he’d rushed in and ignored my orders, or my _advice_ , all the other guys involved fled to Cuba to live it up.” He sighed in exasperation, a truly done look on his face. "And then he was just lucky the guy voluntarily confessed, because he forgot to read him his fucking Miranda rights."

* * *

 

"I wasn't even technically uncooperative." Shane snorted, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t actually have to obey his orders, he didn’t have authority over me. And he was not happy any of the times I reminded him of that. He seemed to think the CIA owned the FBI. I said all he could do was give me advice. Which was true. And still is.”

“But it _was_ your fault that the rest of the fugitives got away.”

“I-" Shane paused, throwing him a frown. "I’ll accept part of the blame, but it would’ve happened in the end anyway! Bergara was just prolonging what was, in the end, inevitable.”

“So that’s why you were both in Cuba? Tracking this fugitive guy."

“Well I didn’t just run off for a holiday, pal. But yes. We were on separate cases, but similar ones.”

“And that’s where you met Ryan in person for the first time?”

Shane took a drag of his cigarette, slowly exhaling it, like he was pondering the meaning of life, and did not like it. “Mmhmm. D-Day.”

The interviewer skimmed the page in front of him. "And how did you meet each other?”

“First was a cafe. That was short and not sweet. Then I bumped into him at a bar. I’d seen him once or twice before all that, at meetings and such. Never talked to him. And in the bar, nothing really happened." Shane shrugged. "Just acknowledged each other.”

* * *

 

“Firstly, Shane was blackout drunk. Secondly, he almost outed me as a CIA agent in front of the entire bar." Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a particularly bad headache. "And then thirdly, when I tried to get him to shut the hell up, he proceeded to try and physically fight me.”

The interviewer paused in her reading, raising an eyebrow at him. “He 'tried'?”

Ryan paused, biting his lip as he thought. “Well… Okay, I had a drink or two on me. Maybe. But nothing _crazy_ happened.”

“That’s not what we heard." She spun the page in front of her around to face him. "Witnesses say they saw you two get increasingly more aggressive to the point where other people at the bar were uncomfortable. And another interesting thing to note is that you both apparently referred to each other by first name, loudly and often." She gave him a long look. "Not very formal. Not like the strangers you're claiming you two were. Are.”

He swallowed. “…We were acquaintances.”

“Well you've changed your tune. Did you know each other well enough to call each other by your first names?”

“Well, yes! It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It is for two men in high positions from opposing sides," she said slowly.

“I- I don’t see why this is relevant.”

“Ah, but it is. To the reason behind our dear president’s untimely death.” She raised her eyebrows. "And it's not looking too good that you're both claiming to be strangers, and now are both changing your minds. And your simultaneous disappearances on the day of the assassination. It's all quite strange indeed."

* * *

 

“I- It wasn’t a _thing_." Shane rubbed a hand over his mouth, his eyes staring into nothing. "We didn’t- We didn't have _beef_ or anything. It was just the way shit happened. We weren't arch-enemies, like you all seem to be convinced.”

“Oh, but it does sounds like you clashed over a lot of things.”

“We didn’t! Sometimes. We have some differing opinions, perhaps." He frowned thoughtfully. "On a lot of stuff."

“So you're saying that you _are_ friends? That you _do_ like Ryan Bergara?”

“I… No. No, I don’t like him. But I don’t dislike him either! He’s just… there." He smiled wryly. "A bit like you.”

“Yes, but you didn’t try to fight me in a bar in Cuba three days ago.”

“Well, not yet. Who knows?" Shane grinned at him. "This day next week you could have me in a headlock in a bar in Argentina.”

The interview closed his eyes, sighing heavily. “Why didn’t you tell Bergara about the route?”

“Because-" He hesitated, waving a hand in the air, like he was trying to find the words he wanted floating in the air around him. "Because he’s fucking annoying! He was annoying me!”

“Why? So you _were_ talking?”

“Fine! Yes, we were talking!”

“Why?”

“I didn't give him the route because he wouldn't give me the relevant information regarding any risky individuals that could've been around that day.” He slammed a hand on the table, pointing a finger at the interviewer. "Like Harvey Lee Oswald, first and foremost."

“So you two were withholding information from each other?!”

Shane paused, mouth hanging open slightly. “He started it.”

* * *

 

" _He_ started it.”

“Madej did?”

“Yes! He wouldn’t give me the route layout! So why the hell would I give him anything I had?"

"To save the president's life!"

"Look, what I think is most important is that even though Shane knew the route and chose it himself, he didn't put any men in any of the thousands of windows overlooking the damn roads!" Ryan sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his weary face, eyes closed. "Look. Look, can I just take a quick break?"

* * *

_November 21st, 1963._

_"Mr Bergara, the president is on the line."_

_Ryan's head whipped up at the sound of his secretary's excited voice. "What? Why?"_

_"I don't know! But you should not keep him waiting!"  
_

_"Are you serious?"_

_She nodded, backing out of the room. "Answer it! It's the fucking president!"_

_He nodded, snatching up the phone and putting it to his ear. "Uh... Mr President?"_

_"Psych, you dumb bitch."_

_"Fuck you, Madej! What is it? What do you want?"_

_"I want what I'm supposed to have."_

_"Do your own research, Mr Intelligence Analyst. And don't fucking call me again."_

_"I would do my own research, if it wasn't classified_ _CIA files that I need."_

_"Well that's too bad then."_

_"Oh, are you upset because I got to choose the route?"_

_"No." He cared. "No, I don't care."  A lot._

_"It's a real fun one."_

_"Oh, is it."_

_"Oh, yeah. Mind-blowing stuff, really."_

_Ryan closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "If this is all because of the heist fuck up, that was your fault."_

_"Look, we're the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Investigation being the key word." He could almost hear the man's smug smile. "If my guys are there, you know,_ investigating _, and then a bunch of your idiots burst in thinking they run the place and blow everyone's cover, it's your fault."_

_"Your guys work with the subtlety of a fucking bull in a China shop, you idiot."_

_"Oooh, touchy."_

_"I'm not sending you dick about shit, Madej. Go play in traffic." And with that he slammed the phone back down, taking a deep breath._

_It was fine. It was one day, one day with the president driving around in a car for a maximum of half an hour. It'd be fine. Right?_

 


	2. Recording 2

"So you _were_ talking?"

Shane raised his eyebrows at him. "Hm?"

The interviewer gestured at the tape player. "You and Mr Bergara did in fact have frequent communication, yes?"

"You tell me, pal. You just played me the recordings of our phone calls."

"Then why did you lie?"

Shane shrugged. "Look, a prank call every now and then isn't a big deal, is it? It especially isn't relevant to the mess we're supposed to be discussing."

"Oh, but it is to me." The interviewer raised his eyebrows, looking at him over the thick rim of his glasses. "Because I don't know if you're aware of the fact that impersonating the president is a crime."

A pause. "I was not aware. Of that."

"So then let me strike a deal here." He pointed at Shane. "You tell me why all that blood is on your shirt, and I won't book you for the impersonation."

"Okay! Okay, let me just say something first, because otherwise it'll-"

"No. Just answer this question; did you or Ryan Bergara kill or harm any individuals while in Cuba?"

"Woah." Shane blinked at him, a bit taken aback by the blunt question. "Woah, slow down. Let me just tell you something first. This blood is not actually as much as it may appear, because it's from multiple people! Like, various little bits. From multiple people. So it's not that much, in the end."

"It sure looks like a lot. And your friend looks even worse."

"He only looks worse because of the white shirt."

The interviewer looked as if he was about to argue before hesitating. "You're probably right, actually. But it doesn't matter. Just tell us who the blood belongs to."

"Right. This area here is mine," began Shane, gesturing at the drops just on the collar of his loudly printed shirt. "From my nose, I think. And these smudges all here are Ryan's himself, from the bar. And then-"

"Ah yes," interrupted the interviewer. "The bar. Tell us about that night."

He whistled through his teeth. "Well strap in, bucko, because this is a bit of a, uh, crazy tale."

* * *

_November 22nd, 1963. A shady bar in a shady area of Havana, Cuba._

_"I told you! I told you not to come here, not to fucking plan your case around mine, and you're fucking here like a fucking idiot!"_

_"How was I supposed to know he'd get blasted?!"_

_The two men shouting were blissfully unaware of the amount of eyes fixed on them, the bartenders observing the conflict like it was a movie._

_"Because you planned the route! Why weren't your guys in the windows?!"_

_"There were 200,000 windows, Ryan! I didn't have enough men, so-"_

_"So you just didn't do anything?! Do you know how bad that makes you look?" Ryan gestured at him with his drink, with such vigor the alcohol splashed out and onto the floor. "And I'll be roped into it because of all your stupid calls."_

_"My calls weren't stupid," shot back Shane, his words slurred. "I needed the files on dangerous individuals and you wouldn't give it to me."_

_"Your call was stupid, Shane. Impersonating the president is illegal as well, you idiot."_

_"Really?" Shane looked thoughtful for a moment, frowning at the surface of the bar, which was wet with their spilled drinks. "I don't think that's true."_

_"It is! You've put both of us in danger out here!" Ryan got to his feet, a tad bit unsteady. "It would've been okay if it had just been me who came here, but because I knew you were trying to fucking follow me or something, I didn't tell anyone! We're probably prime fucking suspects, Shane!"_

_"Oh, you're gonna blame me for the whole secrecy, hm?"_

_"Gentlemen, can you please lower your voices?" The bartender didn't say this with much sincerity, however. The conversation was extremely interesting, especially to certain individuals in the room._

_"It_ is _your fault that I didn't tell anyone about the reason I'm here!"_

_"Oh, Mr Central Intelligence Agency can't-"_

_The slap hit him right across the face. If you've ever been slapped, you'll know that it's not just physically painful, it's emotionally painful. It's humiliating. And Shane did not like to be humiliated. Ryan pointed at him, a warning gesture; 'there's more where that came from'._

_Shane went for him, knocking their drinks over in the process. "C'mere, you little jerk!"_

* * *

 

"So ten minutes later we were forcibly escorted from the bar, and wandering the streets like two drunk idiots."

"It sounds like you _were_ two drunk idiots."

"Well... Yeah, maybe." Ryan rested his head in his hand, covering his eyes, like he was still recovering from the hangover. "But it would've ended there if he hadn't shouted about me being in the CIA. Because it turned out half the people in that bar were either national agents or- or fucking fugitives of some sort. And it's not good to wander into a bar where there's MI6, DGSE, KGB - you name it - and start arguing about the president's _very recent_ assassination."

She stared at him with wide eyes. "So what happened?"

"Okay." Ryan sighed heavily. "Harvey Lee Oswald. He lived in Russia for a while. He was just generally very anti-America and very pro-Russian. And there were Russians in the bar. KGB. It doesn't take much to assume that they were in with Oswald. And they now knew that there were two American men wandering around who could easily be pinned with the blame, one of whom was in the CIA."

* * *

 

_November 22nd, 1963. An isolated street in an isolated part of Havana, Cuba._

_"Fuck off, Bergara. You're getting your nose blood all over me."_

_"Well my nose wouldn't be fucking bleeding if it wasn't for you! And I can't walk in a stupid straight line."_

_"Not my fault."_

_"Stop walking into me."_

_"_ You're _walking into_ me! _"_

_"Just stop. Stop for a minute." Ryan wobbled slightly, stumbling to the side. "Woah. The street's spinning."_

_"Just sleep here. I'll get you in the morning." Shane was already wandering off down the dimly-lit street, teetering every now and then. "If I feel like it."_

_A loud thump alerted him to the fact that Ryan had taken his advice, voluntarily or involuntarily. A slightly smaller thump, more of a 'thwip', made him stop walking. He made a sloppy turn to look back down the road. He could see Ryan flat on his face on the cobblestones, and right beside him a small cloud of dust, gradually floating, dissi_ _pating into the humid air. Without considering the dangers of his actions, he made his way back down the street, stumbling to his knees beside Ryan to peer at the small hole in the stone._

_"Hm." He sniffed, unable to stand up quite yet. Ryan was right; the street was indeed spinning. "Bullet."_

* * *

"So you're telling me Ryan Bergara avoided getting sniped because he passed out?"

"As I told you already, life is full of twists and turns." Shane leaned back in his chair, draping an arm along the back of it. "And even in my drunken state, I proved to the world that I am a kind man. I carried Ryan all the way back to where I was staying."

"You carried him? In your state?"

"Drag, carry, it doesn't matter." Shane shrugged. "Technically I saved his life. Not that he was exactly grateful."

* * *

 

"And that's why this side of my face is covered in scratches," finished Ryan, pointing at the right side of his face. "He just dragged me down the road like a bag of trash. And then he expected me to thank him? Nope."

"Wait wait wait." She held up a hand for him to stop, eyes closed. "Someone tried to kill you?"

"According to Shane, yes. And the next day I went back to check, and it turned out he'd been telling the truth." Ryan reached into his pocket, taking out a small lead bullet and holding it up. "I found this in the hole in the ground. Someone tried to straight-up kill me."

She took it from him, handing it to the man standing beside her. "Take that to Forensics, will you? Now, Mr Bergara, when that comes back, we should be able to identify the country of origin."

"Oh, it was the DGSE." He said it as if it was a simple fact of life. "It's the only one that makes sense."

"None of this makes sense so far, Mr Bergara."

"Oh, it will when I'm done."

* * *

_November 23rd, 1963. A dodgy hotel in a dodgy area in Havana, Cuba._

_"Look. I found this."_

_Shane stared at the bullet, squinting through his blinding headache. "Ah. Pity they missed."_

_"Shut up." He flicked the bullet at him, hitting the man in the face._

_"What the hell, Ryan? Jesus." Shane stooped to pick it up, groaning like an old man as he straightened back up again. "If I knew you were going to wake me up this early, I would've shot you myself."_

_"Well if a sober sniper missed, I have a feeling you would have too." He moved to the small bathroom, glaring at himself in the mirror. "Wow. I look awful."_

_"I preferred when we just talked on the phone," called Shane from the next room, the sound of him collapsing onto the couch swiftly following. "Being with you, physically, in person, is probably half the reason I have this headache."_

_Ryan turned on the tap, the water gurgling before gradually splashing into the sink. "Where's your razor? Where's any of your shit?"_

_"First of all, if you ever touch any of my stuff I'll throw you off the balcony. Secondly, I don't have any of that shit with me."_

_"Huh?" Ryan moved to the door, staring at Shane draped across the couch, a hand resting across his eyes. "Why the hell not?"_

_"I forgot it, Ryan!" He raised his head, removing his hand from over his eyes to scowl at him. "I was in a bit of a hurry to beat you here. Since you refused to cooperate with me. Again."_

_"You're-." Whatever insult he had been trying to say was replaced with a frustrated groan through gritted teeth._

_"Yeah, same to you."_

_Ryan opted for simply washing his face inside, to try and look even a bit less suspicious. He stared at himself in the mirror; a scratched-up face, various bruises, and a wrinkled white shirt speckled with dark red blood. He could see the road outside in the reflection in the mirror, the window giving him such a view right behind him. The people all looked very much not covered in blood. He and Shane would stand out like-_

_His eyes landed on the dark van pulling up on the curb across the way. No registration plate. Blacked-out windows. Very ominous in general, especially as large, bald men climbed out of the back, heading towards the hotel. "Shane. Shane, we gotta go."  
_

_"Hm? Why?"_

_"We just do. Like, right now." Ryan hurried into the room, noticing how Shane was still relaxing on the couch. "Right now, Shane!"_

_"Just five more minutes."  
_

_He moved to the back of the couch, gripping the bottom and heaving it upwards. Shane yelped in shock as he tumbled off onto the dusty floor._

_"What the fuck, man?!"_

_"There's very-"_

_Three loud impatient knocks made them pause, staring at each other._

_"Open up!" shouted a voice with a thick Russian accent. "Room service for the Americans!"  
_

* * *

"And you got away from this how?" The interviewer lit up another cigarette, seeming very much interested in the whole story. 

"The balcony." Shane pressed his lips together to stop himself from smiling. "We just climbed to the one next to us. It was a bit easier for me than it was for Ryan, but shit happens."

The interviewer flipped through the pages, scanning one quickly. "Ah. You must be referring to Mr Bergara's height?"

"Or lack of. But yes. I got across no problem, but I then had to stop and risk my life trying to get him across too. The whole time those Russians were trying to bash the damn door down."

"And why did you?"

"Why did I what?"

"Risk your life for his? Because so far it sounds as if you weren't very fond of him."

Shane raised an eyebrow at him. "I wasn't. And I'm still not. But I didn't hate him _quite_ enough to leave him to fucking die."

"Funny, because we have a direct quote from you when asked about Ryan a few years ago." He cleared his throat, lifting up the page for easier reading. " _That guy -_ meaning Mr Bergara _\- is a fucking idiot. I'd rather boil alive in my own spit than have to spend thirty seconds alone with him. I mean, really. What an asshole. And if anybody brings him up again, I'll pull your entire spine out of you_." The interviewer put the page down, looking at him expectantly.

"Well." Shane nodded slowly, as if analyzing a complex piece of Shakespearean poetry. "I wasn't his biggest fan. I won't deny that."

* * *

"He said that?!" Ryan sat back in his chair in stunned silence, blinking. "What a total dick. I've _never_ spoken about him like that."

"Well, we actually have some quotes that-"

"How about we don't do that," said Ryan quickly, clearing his throat. "And we just move on."

"But that doesn't answer why he came back for you."

"Well, the thing was that, at the end of the day, we were all we had." He took a deep breath, mouth open, waiting for words to come to him. "We couldn't abandon each other. Then we'd be completely isolated."

"What about your satellite phones? You guys presumably had those, right?"

"Yeah. Shane had one in his hotel room."

"And you didn't use it because...?" she asked suspiciously.

"Have you ever been so hungover that you woke up and instantly screamed because you thought you were in Hell itself?" Ryan smiled tightly. "Because I sure have."

"Well what about your one?"

"My one was in _my_ hotel room," replied Ryan. "Which should've been a simple A to B journey. But we managed to stop by every single letter of the alphabet before we got there."

She got to her feet, stating the time for the recorder. "We're going to have a quick break so me and my colleague can compare our statements."

Ryan nodded wearily, folding his arms on the table. "Can I see him?"

"Who? Shane?"

"Yeah."

She paused at the door. "Why?"

"I need to speak to someone who isn't convinced I aided in killing the president."

For a moment, it looked as if she was about to leave. "...Okay. But only in here, and with the recorder on."

 

 

 


	3. A little bit of chat, then Recording 3

Shane frowned at him from the doorway. "Is there any way I can avoid having a conversation with you?"

"No." Ryan folded his arms on the table, giving him a flat look. "Unfortunately, you're the only other person I can talk to apart from the interviewer I'm stuck with."

"Woopee for me." Shane sat in the seat that the interviewer had been occupying, resting his head on his hand. "Well, come on, Ryan. You got me dragged in here, so talk." He grinned at him. "Or did you just miss me?"

"You wish, Madej."

"Oh, I don't really. I think I've seen enough of you to do me for the rest of my life."

"So when this is over I won't be receiving any more 'hilarious' calls?"

"Hm. I'll see."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Fantastic."

"You say this as if we'll definitely get our jobs back," said Shane dryly, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Which I highly doubt."

"Oh, I doubt you'll get _your_ one back," replied Ryan lightly. "But I, on the other hand, was actually good at my job. And still am."

Shane laughed sharply, raising an eyebrow at him. "Back at it again already, hm? Pushing all my damn buttons."

"Mm. Habit."

"Sometimes I wish the KGB had got ya." Shane aimed an imaginary pistol at him across the table, one eye shut for aim. "Popped one right through your skull."

"As I said, it wasn't the KGB," replied Ryan firmly. "It was the DGSE."

"That's not true. It doesn't make sense."

"You've never dealt with external security, Shane. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh don't come at me with that shit again, Bergara. I may be internal security, but I have common sense in spades, which is something you lack. Along with-"

"Don't say height, or I'll throw it down right now," said Ryan, pointing at him across the table. "I'll shove that recorder right into your stupid mouth."

Shane raised his eyebrows, an unimpressed look on his face. "Really, Ryan. Control yourself."

"It's a French bullet," said the interviewer as she strode into the room. "As in, it was made in France. So it was most likely the DGSE."

"Fuck you, Shane!" Ryan punched the air, a bright smile on his face. "I knew it!"

"Oh shove it, Ryan." He rolled his eyes, getting to his feet. "Can I please leave now?"

* * *

 

_November 23rd, 1963. An unfamiliar alley in an unfamiliar part of Havana, Cuba._

_"Are you sure your hotel is down this way?"_

_"If you ask me that one more time I'll kill you."_

_"But you won't answer me, Ryan! Come on!"_

_Ryan turned to face him, hands on his hips. "We're lost."  
_

_"I fucking knew it!" Shane made a strangling gesture towards him, both his hands quickly_ _clenching into fists. "God, you have to be the worst CIA agent in North America."_

_"What is with you and shouting out the fact I'm in the CIA every five fucking seconds?"_

_"Because honestly, it baffles me." Shane strode past him, continuing on down the dingy alley. "I'll lead, since you don't even know where we're going."_

_"That doesn't make any sense!"_

_"You were hesitating, Bergara! If you don't know where you're going, at least go there with confidence, yeah?"_

_Ryan reluctantly started following him, loosening his tie around his neck with such vigor he pulled himself off balance. "Jesus fucking- Shane, slow down, would you?"_

_"Sorry, no can do. Long legs, y'know."_

_"Dickhead." He gave up on trying to undo his tie, sighing heavily. "God, I hate my life."  
_

_He saw Shane suddenly do a complete 180 turn further up the alley, briskly walking back up towards him. "Yeah, Ryan, quick question for ya."_

_"What?" demanded the shorter man, glowering at him as he approached. "What is it?"_

_"Uh, German. German people in Cuba. Odd or no?"_

_"Well, it depends if it's East or West, doesn't it?"_

_"What if it's East?"_

_"Then... Then that's a bit weird." Ryan frowned at him. "Why?"_

_"There were just some German guys sneaking down the alley beside us," he said, glancing back up the alley towards where he'd been. "Talking communism."_

_"Are you serious?" Ryan ducked behind the nearest pile of trash bags, his back pressed against the rough wall. "Hide, you idiot! No, not beside me!"  
_

_"It's easy for you to hide!" snapped Shane, looking around the almost empty alley, frantic. "You could hide under a pebble!"_

_"Shut the fuck up!"_

_"I can't-" He suddenly stopped talking, staring at something down the alley, out of Ryan's sight. "Hello, boys." His Russian was shaky, but it was better than diving straight into English, right?_

_Ryan watched the man's movements; he was standing casually, hands on his hips, as if it was completely normal for a guy in a bloodstained Hawaiian shirt to be found roaming a dodgy alley by himself. Some voices responded in German, or Russian; Ryan wasn't quite sure. It was difficult to tell if they were aggressive. Shane's hand dropped to his side, showing the number three. Three guys. Ryan adjusted his position, ready to spring._

_"Lovely country, right? It's not Germany though!" continued Shane, hands on his hips, a big smile on his face. "No need for the guns, comrades. Hail the motherland! Ha ha. Right?"_

_The first gloved hand moved into view, gun included. Like a ball of fury, Ryan launched himself forwards, grabbing the arm and sharply twisting. He saw Shane catch the gun before it even hit the ground, raising it over Ryan's head and firing. The shorter man grimaced as the blood of the man he was holding splattered across him, the man's dead weight slumping over him. He shoved the body forwards into one of the other men, hearing another round being fired from behind him, taking out the other guy. A sharp cracking sound, Shane cursing loudly, and then the action was over as quickly as it began._

* * *

"And that's when I stood on my fucking sunglasses," muttered Shane, taking them off his head and chucking them onto the table. "And also where I think this bit of blood came from? Or it could've been this bit. I'm not too sure."

"So you killed three people. So far."

"Oh, no. Only two. The third guy just answered some questions for us."

The interviewer frowned at him. "Voluntarily?"

"Look, Ryan's in the CIA. They'd waterboard a baker just to get free bread."

"Mr Bergara waterboarded him?!"

"Well, no." Shane grinned at him. "But I have a point, right?"

"Just continue your story, Mr Madej."

"Jeez. Fine." He rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair. "The guy turned out to be alright. Gave us his gun and his ammo. And I took his money too, despite Bergara's nagging. But like, desperate times, right?"

The interviewer sighed deeply. "I just- Whatever. Just get on with it."

"Anyway, he wasn't KGB. He was Stasi. Which means we had the Russians, the French, and East Germany on our backs so far." 

The interviewer nodded, giving him a serious look. "The KGB and Stasi are understandable. But why do you think the French were trying to kill you?"

"Oh, Ryan had this big theory, because he's an idiot. In the end, all of them were just trying to kill us." Shane paused. "Except for the English. But they were just watching, I guess. I don't think they cared whether we lived or died."

* * *

 

"Now I thought the French were trying to kill us to make it look as if we _had_ assisted in Kennedy's assassination," said Ryan earnestly. "Because if the president of America was killed by Americans, another World War wasn't likely, was it?"

"Makes sense."

"Yeah, but it turned out I was wrong. But that's for the end."

"Wait, let's go back a bit." She looked at him over the few papers she was flicking through. "Why _did_ you and Mr Madej disappear on the same day?"

He rolled his eyes in exasperation, his head moving with them as he slumped back in his chair. "We fucked up the fugitive financiers case, right? Both of us. Now I wanted to get some of those bastards back, and clearly so did Shane. And as usual, it turned into some sort of competition. One-sided, of course."

"Of course? Were they usually?"

"Yeah. Completely."

"Well, I have an excerpt from one of your phone calls to Shane from last year, and it goes against this claim." Her finger followed the sentence as she read it. " _You think you could do more than me? Not a chance, Madej. I'd bet a hundred, no, a thousand dollars that I could do more pushups than you. I could do more pushups than you in my fucking sleep. You're built like a pencil, Madej. Fuck y-"_

"Okay, okay! Maybe I could get a little bit competitive too... but Shane starts it. Almost always."

"Well this conversation here shows you challenging Madej to-"

"Jesus Christ, how many of our phone conversations do you have?"

She smiled. "A lot. They were actually very entertaining."

* * *

_November 22nd, five hours before the assassination. Washington DC/Langley._

_"Ooh, I love it when you're jealous, Bergara. Keep going."_

_"Shut the fuck up, Shane. The next meeting I see you at I'm going to put you right through the table."_

_"Ugh, baby. You had me at 'meeting', but you finished me at 'table'."_

_"How's about you drive me up the wall some other time, hm? I'm busy."_

_"Oh yeah? Doing what?"_

_"Pack- None of your business."_

_Shane straightened up at his desk, suddenly not as amused by their conversation. "Packing? Why? Where are you going?"_

_"I just said none of your business!"_

_"So it's a case, is it?" Shane gestured urgently at his secretary to come in, an entertained smile appearing across her face; that urgency was only present if a certain CIA analyst was on the phone. "I'll find out, Bergara. So you might as well just tell me."_

_"How about you come to the airport, I meet you, and I knock you out with a single punch."  
_

_"Yeah, as if you'd even be able to reach my head." He covered the phone's mouthpiece, looking to his secretary. "Check all flights leaving Reagan in the next two hours."_

_She nodded, hurrying out of the room._

_"I heard that, you idiot!" came Ryan's voice through the phone, sounding enraged. "You're not fucking ruining this case for me!"_

_"It depends on how relevant it is to me, Bergara. And by your attitude, I'd say it's very relevant."_

_"I'll kill you. I'll actually kill you."_

_"So you say. Often. And loudly."_

_The secretary slapped a print-out of the flights down on Shane's desk, pointing at the flight she'd circled in red._

_"Cuba!" exclaimed Shane, getting to his feet. "Oh, you little bitch. You're going after those financiers! Which are mine, Ryan, so back off!"  
_

_"Fuck you and your whole life, Shane!" Then the monotonous beep of a dead line._

_Shane slammed the phone down onto the hook, shrugging his coat on and snatching his keys off his desk."Get me a flight to Havana as quickly as possible, and also the shortest reports on the relevant financiers."_

_"But the president's parade is in a few hours," replied his secretary, an eyebrow raised._

_"It'll be fine." He pointed at her. "And do not tell anyone I'm going. Bergara kept his travels a secret, so he can get fucked if he thinks he can know what flight I'm getting."_

* * *

"It sounds like you two kept tabs on each other."

"Well, yeah. But our jobs required it." Shane shrugged. "I'm out here, trying to actually convict and arrest criminals. It's very annoying when there's someone basically trying to protect these criminals from me so that he can analyze their behavior and make more accurate 'predictions'." 

"Right." The interviewer waved a hand vaguely. "So back to the alley. What happened after that?"

"Ah, now this is where the drug cartels come into it."

"Excuse me?" The interviewer blinked at him. "Cartels?"

"Yeah. I know, shocking stuff." He laughed. "Don't steal a car with no registration plates! Ha ha."

* * *

 "So Shane stole the most suspicious-looking car, of course." 

"And why did he do that?"

"He thought since there were no registration plates, they wouldn't be able to track us."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Anyone. Everyone." Ryan ran a hand through his hair, looking quite stressed even at the memory. "The whole island."

"And you agreed that this was a good idea?" she replied dubiously.

"Hell no. No. I argued till I almost passed out."

"Yet Madej still went ahead with his plan?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. "That's the thing about Shane. Once he gets an idea in his head, it's near impossible to stop him from following it through."

* * *

_November 23rd, 1963. A busy road in a busy part of Camito, Cuba._

_"We're definitely being followed."_

_"Oh shut up, Ryan. You're just being paranoid."  Shane kept to the main road all the same, watching the rear-view mirror. "And if anyone is following us, it's because you were acting incredibly suspicious."_

_"You can't ask me to cover you as you fucking hotwire a car and then expect me to just be chill about it!"_

_"Uh, yes, I can. Because you're a damn CIA agent." Shane threw him a dry look. "Which I am really beginning to doubt, by the way."_

_"I'm an analyst, Shane." Ryan returned the dirty look out of the side of his eye. "Not a field agent."_

_"So you've never actually been in the field?"_

_"No! Have you?"_

_"Well..." Shane shrugged. "Once or twice."  
_

_"Bullshit."_

_"Maybe so. But I did basic fucking training, unlike you."_

_"Hey!" Ryan scowled at him. "I did basic shit too. I can shoot a gun. I can punch a guy."_

_"Yeah, but could you actually knock a guy out?" asked Shane, raising a doubtful eyebrow._

_"Uh, yeah. Easier than you could."_

_Shane snorted. "Yeah, sure."_

_"You're like an inflatable tube man. I highly doubt you could knock a guy out."_

_"Well you couldn't either, because you only work out your glamour muscles," replied Shane matter-of-factly._

_"Woah. Woah, hold on." Ryan turned in his seat to stare at the taller man, an indignant look on his face. "Excuse me?"_

_"Sorry, Bergara, but that's the truth," shrugged Shane nonchalantly, still watching the road. "You're all arms and everything else is just- is just burritos and-"  
_

_The van slammed into them from behind, pushing the car forwards into the one in front, and effectively ending their argument. Whiplash tends to do that. The van didn't slow down, his wheels screeching against the tarmac as it rammed the car sideways. Shane pulled the steering wheel to the side in an attempt to turn the car away from the rapidly approaching edge of the road, and the swelling river below. He could hear Ryan yelling beside him, the shorter man struggling with his seat belt. And then they were in the water._ _Ryan instantly shoved open his door, kicking it wide, the cold water rushing into the vehicle._

_"Ryan! I'm fucking stuck and you just opened the fucking door goddammit!"_

_Ryan struggled to stay afloat in the murky water, his clothes like lead. "Shit! Shit shit shit!"_ _He pushed himself back into the car, a hand pressed against the roof to try and stay still as the water rushed around him. "What? What's wrong?"_

_"My arm's stuck!" The seat-belt was tangled around his wrist, folded tightly enough to leave a red mark as he pulled against it, legs braced against the car door. "Help me, for fuck's sake!"_

_Ryan shoved him out of the way, against the seat, yanking at the belt. "Oh stop whining, Shane!"_

_The water was at his chin now, Shane was shouting in his ear as his attempts to undo the tangled belt grew more frantic. "Ow, Ryan! Jesus, are you trying to take my arm off?!"_

_"Shut up!" Ryan hooked Shane's arm under his, pushing the belt up with his other hand, feeling it slipping. "It's going! It's off! It's-"_

_His voice was cut off as the water spilled into his mouth, tasting of dirt and petrol. He dove under the water, kicking off from the steering wheel and out the open door. He could hear Shane following, the only other sound in the murky silence that comes with being underwater. The water was dark, nothing but the glowing of the receding car lights as the vehicle sank to the bottom. Ryan struggled towards the surface, his lungs so ready to burst they hurt. He took an instinctive breath just before breaking the surface, coming up coughing and spluttering, hearing Shane exploding from the water beside him, gasping and cursing._

* * *

"So how did you get out of that one?"

"Oh, we didn't." Shane yawned, covering his mouth. "We were caught almost instantly."

"Huh? By who?"

"The guys in the van."

"Who were?"

"La Familia Michoacana," replied Shane dryly, in the appropriate accent. "Or as you probably know them, the Knights Templar cartel. But I really need some tea or something before I can get into that mess."


	4. Recording 4

_November 23rd, 1963. An unknown location in an unknown part of Cuba._

_Shane blinked as the bag was tugged off his head, the light from the single bulb making him squint against its glare. He could hear Ryan cursing as he was dumped in the chair beside Shane, the bag also roughly removed._

_"Jesus Christ, sir!" Ryan shook his head, blinking against the sudden light. "No need for the aggression."_

_Shane nodded in agreement. He couldn't really do much else, since they'd decided to gag him. Instead he just sat at the table, resting his bound wrists on it. His clothes were still damp, uncomfortably so. He glanced at Ryan, eyebrow raised._

_"What?" said Ryan, pulling at the zip-tie around his wrists. "I've got to admit, I'm loving the gag, guys. Great idea."_

_Shane rolled his eyes, turning back to the man sitting across from them, who was just sitting patiently. He looked about sixty, had dark slicked-back hair with streaks of grey, and also possessed a bad attitude._

_"Get rid of the gag," the man said, waving at the men standing beside Shane._

_The fabric was yanked off him, jerking his head back. "Ouch? What the hell is your problem?"_

_"Our problem - my problem - is you Americans stealing my cash," replied the man darkly, leaning forwards into the light. "What are you? DEA?"_

_"I'm-" Shane paused, sharing a look with Ryan. "I'm a tourist."_

_"Fuck me you're a tourist," said the man icily. "If you're not DEA, what are you? FBI? CIA?"_

_Ryan pressed his lips together. "Mmhmm. Yep."_

_"Yeah? Well, which one?"_

_"Both," shrugged Shane, leaning back in his chair. "I'm FBI. He's CIA. Together, we're FBIA. The Federal Bureau of Intelligence Agency."_

_"Shut the fuck up Shane, you idiot."_

_"You- Wait, hold on." The man frowned at them. "What are you exactly?"_

_"I'm from the CIA," said Ryan dryly. "I didn't- He stole your car."_

_"You little snitch." Shane glared at him. "You're lucky my hands are tied, bro."_

_"And he's FBI?" asked the man, almost incredulously. "What the fuck were you two doing stealing my money?"_

_"I didn't know there was money in it!" replied Shane earnestly. "I just needed a car. For me and my, uh, travelling companion."_

_"So you stole one."_

_"Look, pal, you can't condone drug trafficking but discourage a little petty theft."_

_"It's not petty theft if there's fifty thousands dollars in cash in the trunk of the car!" said the man sharply._

_"There was_ fifty thousand dollars? _" Shane gaped at him. "Holy shit, Ryan, did you hear that?"_

_"How about you shut your mouth for a second, yeah?" Ryan sighed heavily, eyes closed. "We didn't know there was money in it. We're... sorry?"_

_"Sorry doesn't give me back my money. And someone has to pay." The man nodded at one of the guys behind Shane. "I think it should be you."_

_"Wait, what? I-" He didn't get to finish his sentence before his chair was yanked backwards, toppled over, spilling him out of it. He tumbled across the concrete ground, pushing himself to his hands and knees. "Hold on, wait a second. I didn't know!"_

_Ryan winced as the kick hit Shane in the ribs, hard enough to lift him off the floor slightly, landing heavily on his side with a loud curse. "Just stick it out, Shane! You'll be fine!"_

_"Ryan, you son of a bitch!" coughed Shane, scrambling away from the advancing men. "I'll kill you!"  
_

* * *

 

"Yet you're still here," said the interviewer curiously. "How is that?"

"Well after a few minutes of just getting the living daylights beaten out of me, they decided to have a break," said Shane dryly, pointing at his eye. "Which is also where I got this shiner. And while we were just sitting outside in this fenced-off area, we hear gunfire, right?"

"Oh, really? What was it?"

"Well, it turns out the cartel weren't the only ones following us down that road." Shane shrugged. "I guess, in retrospect, a car without registration plates is probably one of the easiest to physically track, but-"

"Just get back to the story."

"Oh, right. Anyway, the KGB were also after us. They came in for us, and found some pretty tough resistance." Shane grinned. "The guy guarding us open up the side part of the fence to have a look, and me and Ryan just ran out."

The interviewer stared at him. "That's it?"

"That's it, really. The cartel and the KGB were busy blasting each other, and me and Ryan skipped into the woods a few feet away, and that was that. We stuck to the river, which we kind of regretted, but in the end it was okay."

"You just _ran away_."

Shane frowned at him over his tea. "Well... Well yeah, maybe. But scratch that from the record, yeah?"

"So what happened after that?"

"Oh, the cartel weren't quite done with us, pal."

* * *

_November 24th, early as fuck, 1963. A strange woods in a strange part of Cuba._

_"You motherfucker!"_

_"Get off me!"_

_They rolled across the dirt, Shane's arm around Ryan's neck in a tight headlock, struggling to keep him still. "You just sat there while I- While they hit me like a fucking piñata!"  
_

_Ryan kicked out, flipping onto his back, pinning Shane underneath him. "You would've done the same! Get off!"_

_"Ow! Watch your damn elbow!"_

_"I'm trying to hit you, idiot!"_

_Shane managed to roll them again, shoving Ryan's face into the damp mud as he did so. "Eat dirt, bitch!"_

_He froze, eyes fixed on the woods in front of him. He could hear Ryan's muffled shouts into the dirt, trying to push himself up._

_"Ryan, shut up. Shut up right now." He finally loosened his arm around the man's neck, Ryan's spluttering for air as he raised his head. "Shut up, Ryan, I fucking mean it!"_

_Ryan's eyes landed on the problem instantly, hearing Shane's shaky breath right at his ear. "Is... Is that a fucking crocodile?"_

_The creature let out a low rumbling growl in response, its yellow eye fixed on them. Shane slowly, slowly unhooked his arms from around Ryan's neck, the zip-tie still rubbing against his skin. Ryan was completely still underneath him, splattered with mud, but not quite enough to give effective camouflage. The crocodile turned its head to observe them with its other eye. Its teeth were sticking out from its mouth, which was for now closed._

_"What the fuck do we do?" whispered Shane, too terrified to move. "What's- Is there a fucking protocol for crocodiles?"_

_"I can't believe this," replied Ryan, shifting underneath him. "I'm going to be eaten alive because of you. Because of your stupidity."_

_"Well, it can't eat both of us." His voice slowed as he realized what he was saying. "It can only eat one... right?"  
_

_Ryan's head turned just enough to give him a dirty sidelong look. "Don't you fucking dare, Madej. Don't you-"_

_His sentence was cut off as Shane shoved his face into the mud, springing to his feet and bolting for the trees. Ryan instantly threw himself backwards as the giant lizard scrambled towards him, jaws gaping to show messy, jagged teeth. He scrambled back, fumbling for his gun._

* * *

 

"So I shot it," said Ryan, looking a tiny bit guilty. "Which I do feel bad about. I mean, it was terrifying, but crocodiles are majestic creatures, right? They're not sharks, but they're almost as cool."

"Right," said the interviewer dryly, sorting through the papers. "So that could explain why your shirt is only partially white."

"Yeah. Also, like the badass I am, I cut the zip-tie on the crocodile's teeth." Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Come on. That's badass."

She gave him a flat look. "When did the cartel come back into it?"

"Oh, not for a while." Ryan sighed wearily. "But looking back, it still wasn't my best idea to fire a few rounds only an hour or so after leaving the cartel's hideout. Because, well, people heard me."

"Well, you didn't really have a choice, did you?" she said, eyebrows raised. "I mean, it was that or be eaten."

"I... Hmm." He leaned back in his chair, scratching the back of his neck. "I wasn't talking about... those rounds."

* * *

  _"Jesus Christ, Ryan!" Shane ducked as the wood splintered just beside his head, the gunfire echoing. "You're actually trying to kill me?!"_

_Ryan didn't reply, moving to a different vantage point. "Stay still, you gangly fuck."_

_"I-" He winced as the next bullet hit the tree right in front of him, just skimming his shoulder on the way. "I have a gun too, you know!"_

_"Come out and fight me like a real FBI agent, huh?"_

_"I'm an analyst, Ryan!" He cursed as another round went off. "Stop it, for fuck's sake!"_

_"I knew you were a dick, but leaving me to be eaten by a fucking crocodile?!"_

_"You literally just let me be beaten up by a drug cartel!" shouted back Shane, slowly peeking around the tree. "After snitching on me!"_

_He couldn't see him. Shane moved a bit further out, not liking the silence. He swallowed, really really wishing his hands weren't bound. It's a lot easier to disarm someone with both your hands free._

_The clicking made him freeze. He slowly turned to face the shorter man, the gun aimed literally right at his face. "Listen. Listen, Ryan, let's just talk."  
_

_"Maybe I don't want to talk," muttered Ryan, still keeping the gun raised. "In fact, I really don't want to talk."_

_"Ryan-"_

_"Shane."_

_The taller man took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Let me just-" He suddenly brought his hands up, grabbing the gun and pushing it into the air in one smooth movement. The shot went off, loud as a firework._

_"Ryan, stop!" snapped Shane as the shorter man struggled to free the gun. "You're like one of those gremlins from that movie. One minute you're soft and fluffy, and the next you're a god damn nightmare."  
_

_"I'm not soft and fluffy," replied Ryan sharply, using his free hand to shove Shane in the chest._

_"You have the face of a munchkin. Or a cherub."_

_"Oh, you son of a bitch."_

_"How are your hands free?" asked Shane suddenly, frowning down at him._

_"Oh, y'know." Ryan shrugged nonchalantly. "Crocodile teeth."_

_Shane stared at him. "As much as I kind of wish you were dead right now, that's pretty cool."_

_"I know, right?"_

_"Police!" came a voice through a megaphone. "Put your hands up!"_

_The two men jumped in shock as a bright light was shone on them, their shadows stark against the trees behind them._

_"What the hell is he saying?" hissed Shane, eyes wide. "I don't speak Cuban!"_

_"They speak Spanish, you idiot," replied Ryan, putting his hands up, Shane copying his actions. "And how the hell do you know Russian but not Spanish? What the hell sort of requirements does the FBI have?"_

_"None of your business, that's what."_

_"Come peacefully and we will not harm you!" came the voice from behind the blinding light._

_"Okay!" shouted back Ryan, chucking his gun onto the grass. "Okay, we'll come with you!"_

* * *

 

"I'll assume it wasn't that simple," said the interviewer, raising a bushy grey eyebrow. 

"Nope." Shane smirked at him. "You're catching on to the running theme, I see. No, the local police were basically owned by the cartel. It turned out that there was a whole search party out for us, and we probably wouldn't have been caught so quickly if Ryan wasn't so trigger-happy."

"Well, in his defense, it sounds like you deserved it."

"You're taking sides now?" Shane shook in head in disappointment. "If I knew your name, I'd say it in a sad tone to show how you've upset me with your choice."

"So the cops handed you over?"

"Oh, no. First, we were brought all the way back to Havana," said Shane, sighing heavily at the memory. "Then we were put in a cell for a while, which was absolutely delightful, especially considering Ryan's positive mood, and then we had to wait until the cartel showed up to claim us, really."

"And did they?"

"Yes. But about four minutes down the road, we were rudely interrupted."

"Oh?" The interviewer looked at him over the rim of his glasses. "By who?"

Shane smiled, raising his almost-empty cup. "More tea first?"

 


	5. Recording 5, and a fond memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/X70VMrH3yBg  
> Shane and Ryan's theme song in this chapter, I have decided

"So what happened exactly?"

"Well, let me ask something first," said Ryan, a finger in the air. "Did _you_ know Cuba had a mafia?"

"Well, yes," she replied with a shrug. "It uses Cuba as a halfway point between South America and North, doesn't it? For drug trafficking and such?"

"Ah. You see, I didn't know that. And Shane didn't know that. And it turns out this Cuban mafia did not have a good relationship with JFK. Or, you know, Americans in general."

"For two high-ranking federal agents, you both seem strangely oblivious to certain things you should definitely know about."

"Look, I'd heard of your basic mafias; Italian, Russian, Mexican, and all that. Just not Cuban, so..." Ryan leaned forwards, arms folded on the desk. "Anyway, I'd say this surprise mafia knew they were gonna start getting looked into because of Kennedy's assassination, which would _not_ be good for business. So when they hear of two Americans wandering around Cuba being followed by who knows what national intelligence organizations, they think 'hmm. These guys could take the blame'."

The interviewer raised an eyebrow. "And so?"

"And so we get kind of... kidnapped from our kidnappers?" Ryan frowned, resting his chin on his hand. "Is there a term for that? Counter-kidnapping? I don't know. The only good part about it was that Shane got gagged again."

"And why is he so frequently gagged in this story?" she asked.

"Have you ever met Shane?" Ryan laughed dryly. "If running your mouth was a sport, he'd have gold medals by the dozen."

* * *

  _November 24th, 1963. The back of a van, hopefully still in Cuba._

_"We didn't steal anything, or take anything, or do anything," said Ryan in exasperation, noticing Shane nodding in agreement out of the corner of his eye. "We didn't even have time! We basically came here straight from prison!"_

_"But where were you before that?" asked the woman, her grey hair pinned on top of her head. "You are Americans, correct? Although you don't look very American."_

_"Unfortunately, I am American," said Ryan flatly. "Just as much as the white guy sitting beside me."  
_

_Shane's response was muffled through the fabric around his mouth, making him sit back against the side of the van in a defeated slump. Ryan grinned, giving the woman a thumbs-up. He liked it very much when Shane couldn't talk. It was the sweetest lack of sound in the world._

_"So you are CIA and he is FBI?" She nodded slowly. "That is perfect. Please step outside the van."_

_Shane sat upright again, sharing a look with Ryan. "Mmffm!"  
_

_"Yeah, whatever, dude." Ryan looked at the woman, an eyebrow raised. "Why should we step outside the van?"_

_"Because I said so," she replied simply, lighting up a cigarette. "So go."_

_Shane shook his head firmly. No. No no no._

_"I'd rather stay in here," said Ryan slowly. "Nice and, uh, not ominous."  
_

_"You can't stay in here," she replied with a shrug. "I can't have bloodstains on any of the vehicles involved."_

_"Fuck." Ryan looked at Shane with wide eyes before turning back to her. "Fucking hell, lady. Why?"_

_"It's bad for the upholstery. And also it links my family to the murders."_

_Ryan paused, lips pursed. "And what if we say no?"_

_"I am giving you this opportunity to die a dignified death," she said coldly. "If you'd rather get dragged out of here, then so be it."_

_Shane glanced at Ryan, shrugging._

_The shorter man nodded, turning back to look up at her. "We'd like to be reluctantly dragged, please."_

* * *

"The thoughts going through my head at the time?" Shane frowned, deep in concentration. "Probably something along the lines of how utterly awful it was to be basically executed beside Ryan fucking Bergara."

"Actually, pause there for a moment." The interviewer looked at him long and sharp. "How did you and Bergara first meet?"

"I told you. In the cafe." Shane raised an eyebrow. "In Cuba? I literally told you about half an hour ago."

"No, as in before that. When did you first learn about each other?"

"Ah." Shane laughed, almost bitterly. "Oh, you wanna know our origin story, hm?"

"Well, yes."

"Right. Well, the FBI and the CIA would interact on certain levels, alright? Areas where internal and external security collided, or where it was difficult to know who should be heading what." He shrugged. "You can already see how we wouldn't have found it hard to get off on the wrong foot, yeah? Anyway, I was just there. As an analyst. You know, providing information when called upon, just doing my job. And so halfway through I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, right?"

* * *

"And I was running a bit late, right? So on the way down the hall, this guy comes around the corner and walks straight into me, and knocks my coffee all over me." Ryan rolled his eyes at the memory, leaning back in his chair. "So I freak out a little, which is completely understandable. And this guy just stands there with this annoying little smile on his face while I cuss him out a bit. I thought he was just some businessman. I mean, he didn't even have his ID or his badge."

"And that's it? Shane spilled coffee on you?"

"Oh, no. No, that was just the beginning." Ryan sighed heavily. "I was already late, so I just had to go straight in with coffee all over me. And who swans in five seconds later? Shane fucking Madej. And the first thing he does is take his seat - which was conveniently across from me - and say 'you're meant to drink coffee, not shower in it'."

* * *

"Which I thought was very much witty," grinned Shane. "And so did the rest of the room. So do you wanna know what Ryan does? He stares at me, just for a moment, and then takes my tea and throws it all over me. In front of the whole board!"

"Huh? Really?"

"Oh, really. So I flip out, and Ryan flips out, and then we both get told to leave." Shane shrugged, linking his hands behind his head. "And later that day I ring him to tell him exactly how I felt about the whole event. Which is polite, I believe."

* * *

_November 1960, Washington DC/Langley._

_"Mr Bergara, there's someone on line four."_

_Ryan glanced up, staring at his receptionist. "Who?"_

_"He didn't give a name, he just said it was urgent."_

_"Hmm." Ryan stared at the phone on his desk, the red light glowing beside line four. "Right. Okay. Thanks."_

_He picked up the phone once she left, putting it to his ear. "Hello?"_

_"Is this Ryan Bergara?"_

_He paused. "Who is this?"_

_"It's very important that I know if this is Ryan Bergara."_

_"I-" He frowned at the oddly familiar voice. "Do I know you?"_

_"Oh, you know me, pal."_

_"You son of a bitch." Ryan stood up, one hand on his desk. "Where are you? Where are you right now?"_

_"In Washington, idiot. I just rang to tell you I hate you and I hope you die."_

_"What's your name?" demanded Ryan through gritted teeth. "What's your name, asshole?"_

_"Why do you want to know?"  
_

_"So I can go to your offices, find you, and strangle you with my bare hands."  
_

_"Yikes. You usually get this upset over some spilled coffee?"_

_"I'm going to find you. Oh, and when I do, I'll-"_

_"Go to your window."_

_Ryan blinked. "What?"_

_"Go to your window."_

_Ryan placed the phone down on his desk, crossing to the window that looked down on the street below. His eyes landed on the tall figure at the pay phone, who promptly gave him the finger. Ryan stood in furious silence as Shane simply dropped the phone, letting it swing freely as he strolled off down the road._

* * *

"Wow," said the interviewer, her eyebrows raised. "He sounds like a pain in the ass."

"He was. Is." Ryan shrugged. "And probably always will be."

* * *

_November 24th, 1963. A run-down abandoned restaurant in a run-down abandoned part of Havana, Cuba._

_"Stop looking at me."_

_"I'm not."_

_"You are. I can feel it."_

_"Man, I really wish you'd kept the gag on."_

_"Shut up, Ryan." Shane peeked out the window, watching the dark, empty street outside. The building across the way had a few lights on, the reception being one. A beacon of hope. "What if they're just waiting for us?"_

_"I'm almost ninety percent sure I heard Russian accents again." Ryan was at the opposite end of the booth, tucked beneath the window further down. "It was the KGB. They're still following us."  
_

_"Not every Russian is in the KGB, Ryan. Jeez. Plus, I heard French, so there."_

_"They're probably crawling all over this place, dude." He slowly got to his knees, lifting up the translucent curtain to have a quick look outside. "Just waiting for us to poke our heads out."  
_

_"Then don't poke your fucking head out, Ryan." He threw a glare at him, getting one right back. "You better be certain that's your hotel."_

_"I'm positive."_

_"I swear to God if it's not-"_

_"I just said it is!" Ryan kicked at him, slipping on the seat and yanking the curtain right off the rod as he fell to the dusty floor. "Oh shit!"_

_"Shh!" Shane slid onto the floor beside him, clamping a hand over his mouth. "Stay absolutely still, you idiot!"_

_There was nothing. Not a single bullet. Just a prolonged, eerie silence. The light from the lamppost outside glared through the curtainless window, stretching across the empty restaurant. Shane's head snapped around as the door handle across the quietly shook. A gentle trial of a turn. Ryan rolled onto his front, pushing himself to one knee as Shane scurried behind the grimy bar. The door handle shook again, more aggressive this time. Ryan edged sideways, tucking himself behind the booth, eyes locked on Shane's across the way. The door handle shook once again, hard. Then the splintering of glass. What they hadn't expected was the silence that came after it._

_Shane slowly peeked out, his sunglasses hanging off his shirt, their one frame shining in the orange light from outside. The door had a neat bullet hole in the middle of the pane of glass, splattered with blood. And whoever had been at the door was gone. Presumably dead. Who the hell was killing who out here? He muttered a curse as Ryan suddenly scrambled across the small gap between them to join him behind the bar, shoving him aside._

_"What the hell, Ryan?" he hissed, impatiently slapping at him. "Rude."_

_"Shut up, Shane." He began searching among the bottles, finally finding an empty one. "You say they have gasoline in the kitchen?"_

_"I- Hold on, man. Are you trying to make a Molotov cocktail?"_

_"Well, unless you have some sort of hidden gun on you, yes." He shook the empty glass bottle at him. "I'd like to have some sort of firepower, wouldn't you? Because whoever comes in here next most likely wants us dead, and I don't wanna go down easy."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/rUrbIU85I8E?list=RDsk-TjQ2DF4M&t=77  
> some credits music if u really care but i like it

**Author's Note:**

> just testing the waters really but it's fun so


End file.
